


Alan

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death of a Major Character (only not really), First Dates, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first thought is, <i>this bloke’s been chatting me up</i>. His second thought is, <i>Sherlock will be furious</i>. His third thought isn’t a thought at all, but the way the rain had looked falling on Sherlock’s coffin as it had been lowered into the ground.</p><p>A missing scene from (Life is) A Series of Risks, part 3 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/11392">The Infiltrate Series</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alan

**Author's Note:**

> This month is the five year anniversary of when we started writing this fic, so Skip and I have decided to share all of the ridiculous stuff we've written in this series that we never shared.
> 
> Skip and I called this fic “The Alan Fic” for yeeeears, and it remains one of our favorites. It takes place during (Life is) A Series of Risks. For those of you who don’t remember, when Sherlock returns from the dead he remains convinced that John had a significant other while he was away. He’s not wrong, but he isn’t right, either.

The office is crowded today, the usual after-holiday rush. Doesn’t stop Alan from strolling down to reception like he has all the time in the world - it’s been a good few days, and the NPs deserve to hear all about it. “Marie, darling, how was your weekend?”

“Not as good as yours, most likely,” she tells him, not looking up from her charts. “Are you here to help or are you just going to boast about what bloke you shagged?”

“Blokes, plural,” he corrects her absently. There’s someone waiting in reception he’s never seen before, a blond man about his age sitting with an equally-blond sprog in his lap, holding up _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_. “Whose is he?” Alan asks.

Marie looks up. “Um, he’s got a follow-up with Chin.”

It’s fascinating, the way the man’s posture screams ‘back-off’ at the same time his smile down at the toddler is bright and inviting. He’s wearing a black coat over a white button-down, dark trousers, shoes he clearly didn’t buy for himself because they’re Italian leather and far too nice for the rest of his outfit. “And his name?”

Marie gives him a baleful look. “Unavailable.”

“Cute,” he tells her. “Divorced?”

Her sigh is completely exasperated. “How can you tell that?”

“Guy his age, kid, no ring. Am I right?”

She looks around like she’s afraid someone will hear, then whispers, “Widowed.”

He looks back over at the guy, who is reading quietly, the little boy paying rapt attention. “I’ll help Chin out.”

“Since when?” she asks waspishly.

“Just give me the file.”

After a long pause she hands it over, eyeing him the whole while.

“Andrew?” he calls loudly. The man stands up, turning the little boy so he’s held against his hip. He limps slightly when he walks, though it doesn’t slow him down any. Alan tries not to look too intrigued.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Godard,” he introduces.

“John Watson,” the man says, shifting his son so he can shake Alan’s hand. 

“Doctor John Watson, it says here. I’m sorry but Dr. Chin’s a bit behind and I’d like to help him out, would that be alright with you?”

John nods easily, and Andrew stares at him curiously. Alan leads them down the corridor, talking casually the whole time, just enough that John can laugh politely and doesn’t feel any pressure to entertain. The follow-up itself is laughably simple, and Alan is in top form -- he makes silly faces so the boy will smile and laugh, and convinces him to take his glasses off, though he’s first told, “Daddy says my glasses stay on.”

“He’s doing great,” Alan announces after fifteen minutes. “You take excellent care of him.”

John looks up at him and smiles with a degree of remoteness, but says thank you like he means it. Alan has always been fascinated by other people’s eyes, devoted his whole career to dissecting them, and John has given his son a duplicate set that is clear and deep and vividly blue. The only difference is in the weight, the way John’s are heavy and chronically heartsick. Alan’s rarely seen a pair so compelling.

He decides to take his chance. “You, on the other hand, look like you could do with a nice night out.”

 

.

To say John is startled is something of an understatement.

His first thought is, _this bloke’s been chatting me up_. His second thought is, _Sherlock will be furious_. His third thought isn’t a thought at all, but the way the rain had looked falling on Sherlock’s coffin as it had been lowered into the ground.

Instinct immediately tells him to say no, to give some excuse. Two years on and he’s got a repertoire of them that would put a blushing virgin to shame, and which all boils down to the same thing – _no_.

His therapist had been telling him for ages that it was time to move on; Mycroft and Mahdavi had been trying to set him up with people they knew, even Lestrade had tentatively mentioned a cousin of his who was attractive and kind and oh yes, liked men. John doesn’t know how to explain to them that even the thought of someone else fills him with grief, and pain, and sick fear. Of what, he can’t say – of the unknown, of replacing Sherlock, of _cheating_ on Sherlock.

Sorrow has made him tired, and old, and worn. That he’s attractive to anyone is a surprise, much less the man in front of him, with his dark eyes and careless hair and charming smile.

“I’m sorry?” he can’t help but ask.

The doctor, Godard, smiles. His sprawl across his chair seems practiced, a clear sign of his confidence that his line is going to work. “A night out. Food, a little bit of dancing. If that’s not your thing, maybe a movie.”

He smiles and John can’t help noticing how handsome he is, how his smile transforms his face from stunning to something altogether out of John’s league. “I… I don’t know if I… that is, I apologize if I unintentionally--”

“Nope,” the man says immediately, bouncing Andrew on his knee. “You didn’t. But you should know, I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

Heat fills John’s stomach, lurching up into his throat. “Excuse me?”

“It’s my medical opinion you need to leave this little one with a sitter and come out with me.”

“We’ve just met. I don’t know anything about you – I don’t even know your first name.”

“Alan,” Godard replies, smiling. “I’m from Glasgow originally, my parents are both doctors, and I’ve a sister in real estate. Never married, no kids, I’ve got a flat overlooking Hyde Park courtesy of said sister, and I find you very, very attractive.” He leans forward. “Go out with me. Just dinner, something hideously expensive and Parisian so I can wow you with the street French I picked up last year.”

John hates how lovely it sounds, hates more how much he wants to feel some semblance of normal again. It makes him feel selfish, and unbearably guilty, and like he’s cheating on Sherlock by even thinking it.

 _It’s time for you to start seeing people again_ , his therapist had said.

Alan smiles again, brilliant and lovely, and pushes a card across the desk to him. His mobile number is scrawled on the back. “Friday?”

The knot in his throat prevents him from speaking, so he simply nods, and takes Andrew from him, and gets out of the office as fast as he can.

 

.

Friday comes and goes, and Alan is completely unsurprised when he fails to hear nary a peep from John Watson. Unsurprised and strangely pleased -- if he’d wanted something easy he’d have it already. Does have it, actually, later that evening -- and the next one too, because he’s in a good mood. He flits happily through his weekend, dines and drinks and takes someone home, and come Monday afternoon makes sure he has ten minutes to place a phone call.

“Hello?” John answers.

“You’ve taught me a very important lesson,” Alan says, instead of saying hello. “Being sat by the phone on a Friday night is really as pathetic as the songs make it sound.”

There’s a pause before John says, “Alan.” He doesn’t sound displeased, just surprised. “How did you get this number?”

“I did something very improper and nicked it from your son’s chart,” he says, and makes sure his tone accurately shares how completely guilt-free he feels.

There’s a puff of air down the line that could almost be a laugh. “A bold move.”

“That’s always been my style,” Alan tells him. He smiles, leans against the wall. “How does Wednesday work for you instead?”

“You really don’t give up, do you?” 

“Not when it’s worth it.” There’s another pause, and Alan presses his advantage. “Seven o’clock?”

There’s several moments of silence. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’m willing to work from there,” Alan says, and sighs resignedly. “Only it’ll have to be later, since you’re picking up your son now. You can tell him I said hello, if he remembers me.”

“How do you know where I am?”

“I’m psychic,” he jokes. “Or I could have heard the kids screaming in the background and put two and two together.”

“Clever,” John says, just barely light enough to be teasing.

“So I’ve been told before.” He waves away Judy, who has come over it seems entirely to stare in an exaggerated fashion at the clock on the wall. “Just remember, even if you hate me it’ll be worth it for the food and obscenely priced wine.”

John snorts. “To be honest Afghanistan murdered my ability to tell the difference between good wine and chateau crap out of a box.”

“You were in the army?” Alan asks. “I thought you were a doctor - wait, don’t answer; RAMC. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I had thought you were clever,” John answers immediately, serious enough that it’s obvious he’s not intending to flirt, no matter what his acerbic response does to Alan’s libido.

Alan genuinely laughs, thrilled. “You’re throwing me off my game, Doctor Watson.”

There’s a pause and shuffle, and then John says, “I have to go.” He sounds almost apologetic.

“I’ll wait with bated breath - no, really,” he protests, when John makes a disbelieving noise. “I will. I don’t think the restaurant will let me reschedule twice.”

“I’ll let you know,” John says again, and hangs up.

“You’re incorrigible,” Judy says as Alan puts the phone away.

“I’m a marvel,” he corrects.

 

.

John’s normally cheerful baby has two molars coming in at the same time, and wakes up early Thursday morning screaming. He cries all through his bath, and struggles fervently while getting dressed, and John doesn’t even _try_ breakfast, just hauls him, bawling and kicking, down to the curb. Andrew cries through the tube ride to his preschool, and cries as John attempts to get some breakfast into him there in the lunch room, and positively _wails_ until John rubs baby ointment onto his fiery-hot gums and gives him a frozen teething circle. His son falls asleep just like that, snuffling and shaking with sobs, and his teacher, Rebecca, puts him in the nap room with reassurances that he’ll be fine.

John goes to work with his heart in his throat.

The office is full of patients when he comes in, of _course_ , but this has been the sort of morning where John is beyond caring. Grace does a double take when she sees him, freezing half in and half out of reception. “That bad?” John asks.

“Worse,” Grace says firmly, and drags him into his office.

He keeps several spare shirts in his cupboard, and he wrestles himself out of his jumper and button down – positively _covered_ in oatmeal – and tugs on a polo shirt that isn’t going to be warm enough, and a blazer that’s worn thin in some places. Grace gives him the once over, sighs, “It’ll have to do,” and piles a stack of patient records in his arms.

The whole of London seems to be ill with something or other, with the ‘something or other’ being some kind of stomach flu, and once again John is reminded of the sheer inefficiency of his work place. Dr. Harris might have once been a brilliant physician, but the time for his retirement had come and gone and the man could barely get to one patient, let alone their entire waiting room. Beauchamp was a whole other story – John was convinced the boy had graduated at the bottom of his class and, having the distinction of being Dr. Harris’s grandson, had been given the job out of familial feeling rather than any discernible talent.

Which makes the fact that Alan Godard is sitting on his exam room table that much more annoying.

“You didn’t call me last night,” Alan says, but with a smile that tells John that he’s forgiven. Not that John is looking to be forgiven – the bloke couldn’t catch a clue if it hit him upside his head.

He exhales through his nose. “Are you sick?”

“Mentally or physically?”

John grits his teeth. “Are you here looking for medical attention?”

Alan beams. “My chest has been sore.”

It’s the very last thing he wants today. He slams the chart down on the table, wrenches his stethoscope from around his neck. If anything Alan just finds it amusing, grinning at him like an unrepentant little boy. John, ever the consummate professional, buries his irritation as far as it’ll go and lays calm hands on him – checking his ears, his breathing, palpating his neck. Through it all Alan stares at him with what John can only describe as bedroom eyes – hooded, low, and always, always laughing at him. He tilts his head back helpfully when John asks him to, lifts his shirt up so John can run his stethoscope along his back, around in front along his well-muscled chest.

It’s a tease, but it becomes infinitely worse when John says, “Any history of heartburn?”

“Sure. Especially recently,” Alan says, smiling.

John clears his throat. “Open your mouth please,” and the last thing John is expecting is for Alan’s lips to form a perfect ‘o’ that sends a throb down through John’s belly.

He’s shaking before he steps back. He can barely meet the man’s eyes, staring a hole through his chart and scribbling on it in a hand even _he_ can barely read. “I… I’ll prescribe you a muscle relaxant, I think you just pulled something.”

“I lied,” Alan says. “My chest is fine.”

“I know, I _bloody_ well know,” John snaps, then closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. “You’re not getting it, so let me make this plain. I don’t want to go out with you.”

“No, you think you _shouldn’t_ want to go out with me,” Alan remarks, brushing the length of his body against John’s as he stands. He’s got several inches on John, but is not quite the half a foot taller Sherlock had been. “I like you. I like the way you are with your son, I like the way you were just now even though I was irritating the hell out of you. I like how deep your eyes are, and not going to lie, I really, really like the way your arse looks in those chinos.” He smiles, boyish and bright and sincere. “I think we’d have fun together, John. At the very least, let me be your friend.”

John closes his eyes tightly. “You’re not looking for a friend.”

“Nope, but if that’s what it takes for you to become comfortable with me, I will be more than happy to be what you need me to be.”

It’s charming, god help him, and worse – it’s kind. John’s never been good with resisting kindness. “I’ve got a child. I’ve got baggage.”

“I know,” Alan says, and brushes his thumb down the shell of John’s ear, over the tendon in his neck. “Come out with me this weekend.”

John looks up at him, heart beating wildly. It has nothing to do with Alan’s thumb on the collar of his shirt. “Okay.”

 

.

Alan has spent two days planning his attack. He has the restaurant, the car, the drinks, and of course the clothes. He knows he looks damn good -- it would be facetious to pretend otherwise. Inky blue shirt, light grey suit, handmade shoes. Sharp lines all clean and tailored and perfectly pressed. He has his hair slicked to the side just so; an almost overly-neat look that made people want to run their fingers through it, twist it up. He hasn’t put this much effort into anything in ages and it’s wonderful, a flame that lights him up inside.

He _loves_ a challenge.

He'd even left work early, much to the nurses' dismay. Marie had smirked but Judy's look was distinctly less forgiving.

"I can't believe you're going through with this," she chastised. "The man is the walking wounded, and here you are jumping on him like you can smell his blood in the water."

He’d rolled his eyes. "I'm taking him out to have fun, how does that make me the bad guy?"

She gave him a sharp look. "He doesn't need your kind of fun."

"Why don't you let him decide," he’d snapped, and left, shoving her busybody nonsense out of his mind.

He parks his BMW illegally in front of John’s flat and steps out, eyeing the nondescript building above a corner shop. It screams John - John the clearly practical, the sensible, the so very serious. The man is wound up so tight it’s almost painful to watch, but Alan knows when he does explode it will be _spectacular_ ; preferably it will happen with the two of them naked and horizontal on his twelve-hundred count sheets.

He rings the bell and is almost instantly greeted by a small older woman, who smiles hugely at him. “Hello, ma'am,” he says, smiling back, “I’m here for John?”

“Oh please come on in, he’s right upstairs.” He thanks her and goes up the steps, leaving her blushing behind him like a school girl.

The upstairs door is closed, and he knocks again. This time it’s answered by a man a few years old than him, same height, salt and pepper hair, nice face. Alan has to suppress a smirk; it’s like going through five levels of security just to _get_ to John. The idea of it is thrilling.

“Alan Godard,” he says, holding out his hand.

The man gives him an odd sort of look that Alan can’t quite decipher, but shakes his hand firmly anyway. “D.I. Lestrade.”

Alan first thinks of his illegally parked car, then remembers he doesn't care. Then the name clicks with his face and Alan makes a noise of surprise. “I’ve seen you in the papers. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. John’s trying to settle Andrew down, he’ll be right out.”

Alan walks in to the flat -- a cozy, slightly dank place, full of mismatched furniture and the most bizarre odds and ends. A skull sits on the mantelpiece, and photos of what look like crime scenes are tacked above stuffed animals and children’s building blocks. He glances at Lestrade. “Do you live here too?”

Lestrade looks confused for a moment before his face clears. “Oh, no. I’m just a friend. I’ve known John and -- I’ve just come by to watch Andrew for him.”

“Nice of you.”

Lestrade shrugs. There’s a clomping of feet and John’s voice. “Andrew, you’ve already said goodnight--”

The kid comes running into the room but pauses when he sees Alan, almost tumbling over in the process. It’s amusing to watch his father do near to the exact same thing when he reaches the room.

“Hi,” Alan says, and smiles hugely.

 

.

John freezes, as startled as his son, who immediately turns and throws himself at John’s knees. He heaves the baby up, gently patting Andrew’s back when his son buries his face in his neck. “You’re on time,” John says, and can’t help the surprise in his voice.

The man standing in the doorway to his flat is leaps and bounds out of John’s league. John is almost _embarrassed_ by how much -- the man looks like he ought to be going to a cocktail party with a runway model rather than dinner with _John_ of all people. He feels under-dressed in the soft blue cashmere sweater Mycroft had given him last year and black slacks. He’d only owned the one suit, and the sleeve of it was forever ruined with baby formula. 

His stomach is twisted into knots. He almost wishes Andrew would puke on him, or his pipes would spontaneously burst, or the surgery would mysteriously need him at eight o’clock in the evening on a Saturday.

Somehow it’s worse with Geoff here -- he thought it might be better, might make things feel more normal, but Geoff is Sherlock, and Sherlock is Geoff, and looking at his friend’s face just reminds him of all he lost, worse still when Geoff’s face morphs from amusement to concern.

“I’ll -- I’m going to go put Andrew to bed,” he says, and Andrew snuffles against his neck at the mention of his name. He isn’t happy, his little boy, far too used to daddy and hot cocoa and a bedtime story by this time of night, and even though he’d done all that it wasn’t quite the same.

John tucks him gently into his big-boy bed, and sits at his side to stroke his soft curls away from his face. Just like always, he picks up Sherlock’s gauntlet once more, singing the French lullaby Sherlock had sung to Andrew since his birth. It doesn’t sound the same, it will never be the same, but Andrew is knackered after such a long day, and it’s only two verses before his eyes get heavy, his chubby little fists loosen in his blankets. 

John leans over to press a kiss along the soft swell of his forehead. God help him, he doesn’t want to leave his son. He makes himself stand, makes himself gently close the door behind him.

“He’s down,” he tells Geoff, and picks up his coat from the kitchen table. Alan is nowhere to be seen, and for a half a second John thinks maybe he _left_ until he hears his voice down in the landing, talking to Mrs Hudson. “You’ve got my number, right?”

“Course,” Geoff answers, smiling. “And the number for hospital, and poison control, and Mycroft’s swat team.” He pats John’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, the lad is safe with me.”

“I know. Thanks again.” John is well aware that he’s lingering in the doorway. He’s become _that_ parent, the one that can’t leave their children to breathe for half a second, and it’s as mortifying as it is humbling. 

“John,” Geoff says gently. He leans in close, after a glance at the doorway. “Be careful, alright?”

Oh, God. John winces. “Really? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“What I told each of my kids before they went out on their first dates, and what I’m telling you, seeing as how you haven’t dated in years.” He shakes his head. “Just be careful.”

John sighs, straightens his collar. “Thanks.”

 

.

John walks down the stairs like a man determined to face death with a stiff upper lip. Alan almost laughs at the sight of it. Instead he thanks Mrs. Hudson for her kindness (and her multiple offers of everything from food to a place to stay to, he’s pretty sure, John’s hand in marriage). He ushers John out the door with a hand on his back, away from the evaluative looks of Scotland Yard’s finest babysitter.

John is utterly charming in his jumper and slacks, the same nice shoes from before. He’s not a man who thinks a great deal about what he’s wearing, Alan has enough brains to figure that out. Dressing for function, not form, unwilling to waste time searching for something that checks both boxes. Lucky for him he’s still delightfully attractive -- smaller, slim in the way that comes from forgetting one too many lunches, but brilliant, and steady, and altogether unique, like a sort of classic car.

It’s an appropriate simile, because John looks at Alan’s brand new car with something close to despair. “Should have become a surgical ophthalmologist,” Alan teases, opening the passenger door. “Better pay, fewer bullets.”

“A lot less fun,” John says, climbing in resignedly.

“Money is fun,” Alan says. “The things you can do with it even more so.”

John almost winces, but shuffles it under his placid calm. “So long as you have enough, right?”

He’s hit a nerve, Alan realizes. He leans over the edge of the door and looks down at John. “Of course,” he says as sincerely as he can. “It can’t get you everything, after all.”

He shuts the door and heads over to the driver’s side, thinking curiously. There had been a picture on the coffee table, just a regular snapshot next to the blocks. A dark haired man, looking away at something out of the shot, eyes serious, expression intense. Handsome, in an odd sort of way. No prize, but guys like that usually make up for unorthodox looks by knowing their way around a bedroom. His presence hung over the place like a fog, and it was no wonder John couldn’t seem to find his way back to himself, so long as he was living in that oppressive shrine.

Alan opens the car door and sits, shuts the door and starts the car up. “I had thought your son was the spitting image of you, but now that I know what his other father looked like...”

John blinks and makes the peculiar face which Alan has already learned means he’s startled. He’s not expecting Alan to bring his lost love up so casually, so interestedly. The man’s an army doctor heroically injured in the line of duty, with a husband dead of a tragic accident, leaving him to raise their son alone. Alan has never come across anyone remotely like him in real life. If John wasn’t so tragically flawed with sincerity Alan would have written it off as absurd comic-book nonsense, but it’s undeniably real, and as far as he’s concerned that makes it more than worth exploring. 

“My sister was a surrogate,” John says, making an endearing effort to get himself on level emotional ground.

“That was kind of her,” Alan says. “My sister, I’m sure, would tell me right where to get off. Values her figure more than the miracle of life, I suppose.” He looks at John as he puts the car in gear. “Did your husband have any siblings?” 

The look that crosses John’s face is all resignation. “One. You might know him. Mycroft Holmes.”

Alan startles. “Your brother-in-law is the _deputy prime minister_?”

 

.

Talk of Mycroft sets the theme for the night. It’s surprising how up-to-date Alan is when it comes to what’s going on in the world, until he remembers that Alan isn’t the sort of doctor he’s used to. John can’t exactly picture him, with his slick car and his fancy suit, in the middle of a war-zone patching lads back together with twine and a prayer and blood up to his elbows. Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, of course -- he works with the man who saved Andrew’s sight, after all -- just not something John has any experience with. 

The restaurant Alan has chosen is, as John expected, almost ludicrously posh. John feels instantly out of place, as if he’s just stepped into a world that he doesn’t belong, a world far better suited for super models and movie stars and doctors who could afford a car that cost more than John made in a year. The waitstaff are very, very French, the menus are in miniature print (John would rather eat the damn menu first than take out his glasses), and the entire place feels like a glossy magazine cover, as if all the substance had been sucked right out of it. 

Alan, John can tell, is entirely in his element. He charms their waitress into looking less like she wants to throw herself into traffic, asks to see the _maître’d_ , “An old friend from my wild university days,” who he then spends twenty minutes chatting with in perfect Parisian French, and talks wine as if John knows anything at all about vintages. At one point, somewhere between the second and third course -- if the single cucumber slice and candied beet could be called a ‘course’ -- John realizes he isn’t actually a necessary element in this showboat number, and before he can help himself he asks, “Why did you ask me out?” cutting Alan’s monologue off at the knees.

Alan pauses, starts to speak, pauses again, and finally says, “Too much?” 

“I’ve got a kid who won’t eat anything but tinned pasta and frozen chicken bites with mustard,” John says with a sharp frown. “How much fine dining do you think I do? The only thing I know about wine is that it comes either in a bottle or a box, and the only French I speak is what I picked up from footy players who went to my Uni, all a variation of ‘fuck’. So I ask you again, why did you ask me out?”

“Because I like you,” Alan says, looking startled. “Is that so bad?” 

Exasperation overwhelms him for a moment, and on its heels blatant annoyance. “You don’t know anything about me. That isn’t your fault, it’s not as if I’ve been exactly forthcoming, but Alan, we’re both far too old to be passing each other a note -- ‘do you like me, check yes or no’.” John stares at the table top for a moment, at the edge of the beautiful plate. “We’re not exactly cut from the same cloth, and we don’t move in the same circle, and there is simply no way that this will ever work.”

“Now that’s just not true,” Alan protests. “We could have a very good time together -- certainly more fun than you’ve _been_ having.” 

John stares at him, dumbfounded. Surely no one was this oblivious. “More fun that I -- what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

"Well look at you!" Alan's starting to really get into the conversation, his conviction pulling away from that slick and sophisticated shine. "You just sit there, down in the dumps. We could make better use of the time than arguing, and really, isn't that what he would have wanted?"

For a moment, one wild and glorious moment, John envisions himself reaching across the table, grabbing the man by the necktie, and yanking him across the pretty dishes and fine silver. In fact, he sees it so clearly that he has to twist his fingers in his napkin under the table to keep himself from making a scene. “Don’t talk about him. You know _nothing_.”

Sherlock would in fact have _hated_ this, John seeing someone else, the selfish burk. Unexpectedly, a hot wash of shame burns in the pit of his stomach, the backs of his eyes. 

"He wouldn't want you to be unhappy, John," Alan says, with infinite care. "He'd want you to move on. Let me help you."

“Oh, and you suspect you’re the perfect person to do that,” John says, voice carefully neutral. “Tell me, Alan, since you’re the expert -- exactly how should I move on?”

Alan brightens considerably, thinking he's won, thinking he's found some kind of weakness in John and can now _exploit_ it. "We can start by finishing dinner, and then head back to my place, see how things go. I'm perfectly happy taking it slow."

John hums thoughtfully, leans back in his seat to study him. “That’s kind of you,” he says after a moment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. I don’t think I even remember how.”

"Perfectly natural," Alan says, in what is obviously his soothing doctor voice. "More wine?"

“Please,” John says, pushing it across the table. “Fill it up, I... I’m a little nervous.”

"Oh," Alan says, voice pitched low. "If this is overwhelming you, we could leave now."

“We still have three courses to go, don’t we?” John asks, and takes a sip of his now-full glass. “Besides, I want to know more about you -- what you plan on doing to me.”

"Forget dinner," Alan says, leaning forward. "I'll have them deliver something later. I'll admit I’ve always been a bit more show than tell." His right foot has been inching closer to John's since they sat down, and now it slides between both of John's.

If Alan weren't such a wanker, John thinks, he might actually be tempted. Can see how others had been in the past, how they'd been unable to look past the glitz and glam and promise in the man's eyes. That he's skilled in seduction is undeniable -- that he's the kind of idiot Sherlock would have summarily dismissed equally so. "You do this often," he observes, as Alan presses his feet between Johns, as the final piece of the puzzle slips perfectly into place. "You're good at this, I have to hand it to you. At another point in my life I might have even fallen for it, because you are charming, Alan. But I know everything I need to know, now, about you, and if it's all the same I'd like it if you could please take me home."

"Come on John, I know this is a lot to take in-- let's just go back to my place, we'll figure it out together. There's no reason you can't enjoy yourself for one night, right?"

Some of John's amusement dissipates. He tries again. "I'm not going to have sex with you, Alan, because I don't want what you're offering. To begin with, I don't know you -- I've seen you a handful of times, half of which were your clumsy attempts in asking me for a date. You don't know a thing about me, or else you'd have already known I don't jump into bed with someone on the first date, or the second, or the fifth. If that weren't bad enough -- and believe me, it is -- the way your hold yourself says 'dominant' -- you're the kind of bloke who's cocky in bed. You'd touch me to please yourself, not to please me. You'd press me to open my legs to you, and it would be uncomfortable and painful because you’re so sure of yourself when it comes to the bedroom that you wouldn't even consider if I wasn't enjoying myself."

John closes his eyes for a moment. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was rude. True, but rude.” He glances up at Alan, who is gawping openly at him, face red and eyes enormous. “You should be nicer to the lads you take home. This lifestyle you’re leading -- surely you see there isn’t happiness in it. I’m not saying what I... what I had was for everyone. But you’re a handsome bloke, and you should find someone to entertain you, to love you.” The man is so heartbreakingly like Sherlock in that aspect -- bored, so _bored_ , and the healer in John wants to comfort. 

"I'm not sure-- you don't--" Alan has to take a deep breath and blow it out in a slow, controlled fashion before he says, somewhat faintly, "I'm a fantastic lay."

John takes a sip of the wine that looks less and less like it's going to end up in Alan's lap. God help him, the man really is absurdly charming. "Arrogant," he corrects. "What exactly were you hoping for? No smoke-and-mirrors, just the truth. Why did you ask me out?"

"Truthfully?" Alan says, scratching a hand through his hair. It's probably the first unconsidered move he's made the whole night. "I was hoping you might like to get naked and order me around."

John, god help him, can't help laughing -- and that is worth all the rest in and of itself. There hasn't been much to laugh about for a long, long time. "So you thought you'd bag yourself an army doctor? You've watched far too much porn, Alan."

"I've managed to reenact a surprising amount of it, actually." Alan says, showing John a genuine smile, one a little self-deprecating, a little disappointed. "But not this time - you're really not going to go home with me, are you?"

John shakes his head. "No." He smiles, and blinks a little because his eyes are burning terribly. This, going out, had been a mistake -- it's only made him miss Sherlock more, made him remember all the times he'd sat across from him in restaurants and giggled inappropriately as Sherlock dissected everyone around them like they were his own personal soap opera. The ache of missing him hurts, like his chest is caving in.

"I wasn't lying about what I said earlier though," Alan says, cutting into his thoughts. "You don't -- this is the first time I've seen you smile since I met you. It was a nice thought, that maybe I could be someone to make you happy in other ways too."

It's precisely the wrong thing to say; John stares down at the plates and is saved from having to speak because the server comes with their next course, a fillet of some sort of fish. It's all ridiculously small, and posh, and after the server leaves John has control of himself to finally say, "I don't know how you haven't starved to death by now, if this is the type of restaurant you like."

"You think I look like this on accident?" Alan lets that charmingly boyish grin loose again. "Besides, I more than make up for the calories in overpriced liquor."

After the fish was yet another course, some sort of vegetable John couldn't identify, and then a desert of fresh strawberries Alan had obviously ordered before their date, as the piece de resistance of his seduction attempt. John had to hand it to him, if he'd been fifteen years younger he would have fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Alan at least had the grace to be embarrassed, the tips of his ears going pink when John rolled his eyes.

Alan, in a move more suited for a gentleman, drives John home despite his failure to get John into bed, which was nice and almost more than John had been expecting. He didn't say much, letting Alan chatter about Dr. Chin's practice and their upcoming conference, and let his mind drift away to another place, another time, with the smell of Sherlock's wool coat all around him, and the deep rumbling of his voice in his ear, and his hand, twined effortlessly with John's, palm to palm. It makes some undefinable thing inside him feel scraped raw, tender as a fresh wound, and he realizes, with startling clarity, how much he needs to just _talk_ about Sherlock with someone who didn't know him.

Somehow he doesn't see Alan fitting that role, not now, perhaps not ever. John finds himself surprised over how much he wants it, a friend he can talk to, someone who cares about him just for the sake of caring and not through familial obligation. It’s been a long time since he had that, since the war.

"--and despite the utter failure in service we had the entire week, I did have a lot of fun." Alan finishes, pulling up in front of the flat. "Well, here we are." He puts the car in park, and bites his lower lip like he's trying to hold something back. For several long, still moments he stares at John, and then he's moving forward, pressing his lips to John's in a kiss that is as brutally, unbearably charming as the rest of him.

John's plan had been to go up to the house, and thank Geoff, and kiss his baby and take a shower and go to bed. But then Alan had to be a proper idiot and lean across the car to kiss him, and as hard as John has been holding himself, he couldn't withstand that.

When Alan pulls away John's face is hot and wet and he doesn’t even sound like himself when he says, "Sorry, I... I'm sorry."

"No, it's... it's my fault, I'm sorry." Alan looks confused, and uncomfortable, and more uncertain than he has at any point since John's met him, as if the one thing he's never had to deal with are _tears_. Looking at his life story, that could actually be true. "I... do you, I can... um. I maybe have..." He digs through his pockets, his glove box, and eventually comes up with one wrinkled paper napkin, which he holds out to John nervously, like a man faced with exposure to a deadly disease or maybe a bomb. It's not even pity on his face - that would be _easier_ to stomach than this, the plaintive, awkward embarrassment on John's behalf.

John digs his fingernails into his thigh until he can breathe, until he stops sounding like a beaten dog, until he can get a hold of himself. He takes the napkin Alan has offered him and thinks that he’s never been more humiliated in his life. “Sorry,” he says again, and can’t even look at the man in the face. “Thank you for dinner.”

"Yeah, no problem. Are... are you going to be alright?" Alan asks, starting to shift to outright concern. He looks like he thinks John is going to fling himself into traffic.

“Yes,” John croaks, face burning. “Unlock the doors please.”

“Oh--” Alan makes an aborted sound and instantly hits the button that disengages the locks. 

He feels Alan’s eyes on him all the way up the walkway, undoubtedly taking in his limp, the ruffled mess of his hair. 

Mrs Hudson’s doorway is dark, having gone to bed already, but the light from the sitting room is glowing down the entry way stairs. John makes his way up them slowly, ignoring the bottom stair where he and Sherlock had once made out for so long Mrs Hudson had chased them up the steps, the spot where Sherlock had always toed off his muddy shoes. 

John thinks he actually couldn’t feel worse, until he gets upstairs and Mycroft and Mahdavi are sitting on his sofa, Andrew asleep between them and drooling on his aunt’s leg.

Mycroft stands when John enters, glances over his face and reads the entire night all over it. John lets him, far too tired to fight it. “Geoff?”

“The Yard called him in,” Mycroft says calmly. “You’re coming home with us.”

“Mycroft,” Mahdavi attempts.

“It isn’t a request.”

John rubs his face. “Last I looked this was still a free country, no matter what your government likes to say otherwise.”

“Be that as it may,” Mycroft replies, straightening. “We have a guest room prepared for you and Andrew, so I simply ask that you please gather whatever Andrew will require for a weekend at his uncle’s house.”

"I'm not leaving my home tonight, Mycroft," John says, voice flat.

"John surely you see that this is in the best interests of--"

"I don't care, _I'm not leaving_." John interrupts, his voice jumping in volume entirely without his consent. Andrew stirs, his sleep light at best because of the change in routine and sitters and location and John’s presence and _God_ , he should have just stayed home. Andrew shifts and blinks sleepily up at his father, and the moment his recognition kicks in he's making sleepy, fretful cries, struggling to sit up despite being far too tired to manage it. John strides over and picks Andrew up, hugs him close to his chest with a hand at the back of his head like he had when he was an infant, feels his son sob out his dissatisfaction with the entire night and thinks that yes, for once he can see the resemblance between them.

Meanwhile Mycroft's face has storm-clouded over. "This kind of incident could have been avoided if you were with us," he says.

"Mycroft," Mahdavi says softly, reining her husband in. "John, we're just worried about you."

It’s the same conversation they’ve had a dozen times already, Mycroft insisting that John needs to get out of Baker Street for a while, John replying that he’s fine, that _it’s all fine_ , and Mahdavi always caught in the middle. His argument has long since worn thin. “You don’t need to be worried. This was just -- it was too soon. I see that now. Thank you for coming by and watching him, but really, seriously, we’re not leaving tonight.”

Mycroft looks as if he’s going to argue, that streak of stubbornness Sherlock had only ever expressed in biting commentary settling in his jaw. Mahdavi touches his arm and Mycroft says, “This has gone on for long enough -- far too long. Whatever you might think, this is _not_ what Sherlock would have wanted for you.” The words are tempered by Mycroft’s eyes, so often cold and hard now filled with emotion. It’s hurting him to see them like this, John realizes, and he wasn’t above showing it, manipulative _bastard_. “You needn’t be alone.”

John feels so betrayed, which makes no sense, he _knows_ it makes no sense, but all the same he can't stop the way the feeling crawls up and settles, unbearably heavy, on his chest. " _Stop telling me how to feel about this_ ," John says, rage dragging sharply up his throat and ruining the words until they're a shredded, mangled mess. "Stop telling me what day and hour and minute I should feel better, or move on, or move out." Mycroft only half deserves his ire, but it feels so damn good to just say it for once, to respond honestly to all the misguided attempts at concern or kindness. 

Andrew makes an exhausted noise of distress against John's chest; John’s heart clenches and he very suddenly reaches the end of his rope. "None of you understand, not a single _sodding_ one of you," he snarls, "and I'm not leaving him so you can stop bringing it up or you can _get the hell out._ "

Mahdavi has a wash of tears in her eyes, but Mycroft just tilts his head. “‘Him’?”

“What?” John snaps.

“‘Him’. You said ‘I’m not leaving him’. Leaving who?”

He can smell Sherlock in Andrew’s soft hair, can see him all over the room, the stacks of papers, the cups of tea on the coffee table, the microscope sitting on the bar table in the kitchen that he had long ago put in storage. Mycroft already knows the answer before John turns around, John can tell, knew it before John said a word. “He’s here, he’s -- if I leave he won’t come back. I’ve got to stay here, I’ve got to _wait_ ,” John says, then -- “Christ, I’m going to drop him, I’m--”

Mycroft is there in an instant, taking his elbow and helping him sit in his armchair, and it is so much like the first week after Sherlock died John really, truly thinks he might be sick. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles from bloodless lips.

“Stop apologizing,” Mycroft orders, his voice rough. So alike, the two brothers, so very _alike_. 

There’s so much inside of him he can’t even cry anymore, like a bottle of soda shaken up until the pressure made everything tight like a drum. Mycroft wraps him in the throw from behind the sofa, crouching to tuck it in around Andrew, who is staring at his uncle with big, wet blue eyes. “John,” he finally says, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Come home with us. Just for the rest of the long weekend.”

John looks up at him. “It isn’t a--”

“It is what I say it is,” he soothes gently. 

John snorts. Mycroft brightens at it, a twitch of his brows. “Is that a yes?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

Mycroft stares at him, and John can read his face clearly -- there was never a choice. “I want to hear about this Doctor Alan Michael Godard originally of Sussex, now of London.”

The intent is unspoken, but as loud as if he’d shouted it. Mycroft wants to know about him, not because he doesn’t know everything about the man already, more than likely down to his pants size, but so he can decide whether or not to kill him.

It’s warming, to be loved so much. It only makes John feel even worse for not finding it close to enough. He's besieged by the desire to be alone, to send Andrew with his relatives for the weekend so he can rant and rave and by the end of it piece himself into some sort of functioning unit again, and yet the idea of separating from his son right now seems an impossibility that just thinking about is distinctly torturous.

His shoulder twinges horribly, telling him he's done holding Andrew at this particular angle for now, and he shifts the baby until he's got his head against John's good shoulder, sucking on his thumb and gripping John's shirt with his other hand. His eyelids close for longer and longer periods as he slowly becomes convinced John's not going anywhere; this night is certainly going to set their bed routine back, he thinks resignedly.

"Tomorrow," John says. "We'll come tomorrow - I promise.” 

 

.

As it turns out, and as John had half expected, Mycroft takes the decision of coming to Downing Street for the weekend neatly out of his hands by sending the limousine to the flat at exactly 10 a.m.. That Elizabeth accompanies it is only the icing on the cake.

She’s standing in the doorway, as polished and strikingly beautiful as ever. She doesn’t comment on his bathrobe, or his hair, or his undoubtedly terrifying red eyes, merely handing him a coffee and a bag that has a pastry for Andrew. “You have twenty three minutes,” she says.

“Piss off,” he replies, and shuts the door in her face.

Andrew doesn’t so much as open an eye as John gives him a wash down and gets him dressed. His son is exhausted, head lolling and his mouth a soft little mew, suckling softly at nothing. John leaves him asleep in the middle of his bed and showers quickly, scrubbing his face. It feels tight, stiff with salt, a reminder of the thick, burning embarrassment that eats away in his belly. 

He’s brushing his teeth when he feels someone looking at him, and looks down to see Andrew in the open doorway of the loo, thumb stuffed in his mouth. “Oh, hello,” he says gently, hefting his baby up to sit on the counter so he can kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his little mouth around his thumb. “How are you today?”

Andrew snuffles, scrubbing at one eye with a chubby fist before flopping forward against John’s bare chest. “Seepy.”

“I know love, sorry we had to get up,” he replies, rubbing his back gently, “but I’ve got a surprise for you. We’re going to Uncle Mycroft’s house for a sleepover.”

His son is utterly, intoxicatingly in love with Mycroft’s basset hound, and at the mere mention of a sleepover he all but vibrates with joy, thumb popping out of his mouth. “Doggy! Doggy go ‘roof roof’!”

“That he does,” John replies, and ruffles his hair. “You’re allowed to have two toys for Uncle Mycroft’s house. Go pick them out while Daddy finishes getting ready.”

It’s almost forty minutes by the time he’s got Andrew ready (they’d negotiated, and he’s allowed to bring three toys but only because one of them is Ribbit, and they do not leave the house without Ribbit), and an overnight bag packed, but Elizabeth doesn’t say a word when he emerges from the flat, simply straightening off of the car with her mobile in hand. 

The Downing area is utterly unlike any other part of London. Ridiculously, It makes John feel more _British_ , the streets and shops and government offices, the residential area, and of course 18 Downing Street, Mycroft’s home. That he’s lived there since they met made the ‘minor government employee’ bit harder to swallow, and ‘deputy prime minister’ a bloody joke. It’s comforting, at least, that a Holmes should be running the country. John can’t imagine it in safer hands.

The lad who opens the door to the limo murmurs, “Lord Watson, sir, welcome to Downing Street,” and John thinks if he starts laughing he’s going to have a bloody meltdown right here in front of the bloody tourists.

He gathers the baby and the bags, and the door to the house opens before John has a chance to ring. “You’re late,” Mycroft says.

“Stuff it,” John replies.

Mycroft pauses, fingertips on his earpiece. “Touché,” he answers, and sweeps his nephew up, kissing Andrew’s cheek to make him giggle. "And how are you today?" Mycroft asks Andrew, leading them into the foyer. Everything is neat, orderly to the point of obsession, the wall clock ticking steadily in the silence. Just looking around John is reminded why he's been steadfastly against this from the beginning - most days John's happy if he remembers not to mix colors with whites. It's not a home meant for a toddler to run around in.

"Daddy was crying," Andrew says by way of a response, probably thinking of the last time he'd seen his uncle. He's staring at Mycroft through his frankly ridiculous glasses, his words completely matter-of-fact, and waits for confirmation that he's right. Mycroft doesn't look surprised, or disappointed, or bothered by the news at all. If anything he looks understanding.

"You're right," John answers, and smiles widely so there's no room for anything else to show on his face. That his son is aware of this, _used_ to it, completely breaks his heart. "I'm sorry."

"He was missing Papa," Andrew tells them both.

John nods. "I was."

For a second Andrew makes a funny little frown, a move so Sherlock it makes John's stomach clench. "We get to see him soon?" he asks this question on average of once a month, and it's never gotten easier to answer.

John shakes his slightly and tries to keep smiling. "No love, I'm sorry. We can't see him anymore."

Usually this is enough to pacify him but today, whatever the reason, Andrew's decided he's not willing to take no for an answer. It's probably because he's so tired, and his entire routine has run completely off the rails, but dear God is this the last thing John needs to deal with right now. "Wanna go see him."

"He's not here, sweetheart," John says, trying to keep his voice even.

"Wanna go see him," Andrew demands, his voice getting watery, the alert of an imminent meltdown on the horizon.

"He's _gone_ , Andrew, I'm sorry, I can't--" John sucks in half a breath and rubs his palm across his right eye, his forehead.

" _Wanna see Papa, wanna see Papa_ \--" And _here_ are the tears, an instant cascade he's started springing up when things don't go his way. Andrew's much too aware of how John feels, too aware of how his _uncle_ feels, no matter what Mycroft tries to hide.

Mycroft holds Andrew up and looks at him, calm and reassuring. "Andrew, he isn't here."

"Where did he go?" Andrew asks, his voice frustrated and confused but far less hysterical.

"He died," Mycroft says softly, and John has to turn away so he doesn't scream at Mycroft, brand him a liar in front of Andrew, no matter that he knows Mycroft is only telling him what Andrew - what _John_ \- needs to hear. "Andrew," he continues, settling his nephew down, "I need to talk to your dad. Would you like to go play with Thatcher?"

Andrew immediately says, "Wanna see Tatch," verging on a whine as though he expects this request to be denied as well. Mycroft puts Andrew's feet on the ground, directs him to the kitchen, and Andrew takes off running.

They’re left, the two of them, in the echoing silence of the front entrance. The dog barks his greeting, and the backdoor to the garden opens with its tell-tale creak, and the cars on the street can just be heard over Andrew's pounding feet.

John looks as if someone has plunged a knife in his heart. It makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out in sharp relief, makes the pallor in his cheeks that much worse, and makes him appear that much smaller than he already is. Mycroft wishes he could be surprised at the sensation he feels when confronted with the shell of his brother-in-law.

He pulls the earpiece out of his ear. "I'm glad you came," he opens. Not, of course, that John had been given a choice, but Mycroft had always found that John reacted in a more agreeable manner when he thought he'd come round to the idea on his own.

His care goes unnoticed -- John doesn't so much as react to his presence, not until Mycroft touches his arm, when he flinches, bone-deep, and comes back to himself with a stiff inhale. "Don't tell my son his father is dead ever again."

They're Mummy's words, told to the policeman who had been assigned their father's murder. Mycroft is surprised how much they affect him, and how painful he finds them. That time is, for the most part, blocked from his memory, but those words... they are as crisp and clear in his memory as if they'd happened yesterday.

Thatcher barks out in the garden and Mycroft says, "Come upstairs with me a moment. Andrew's fine, Mahdavi is outside doing her gardening."

John tenses, as if he'd rather run all the way back to Baker Street, before slowly forcing himself forward, one foot at a time.

The residence is large enough to accommodate two offices. Mycroft's office on the first floor is where he met with the government, where he conducted all of his business. The second floor office is his private place, where not even their household help dared step, where Mahdavi left him completely alone. After all, Mycroft was and would always be a Holmes first, and it was in this room that Mycroft not only embraced those peculiarities that made him unique, but reveled in them. In one corner stood his cello, oiled to a beautiful sheen; in the other was his writing desk, covered in bottled ink, which was showcased in a smudged, used-beaten case. Through the back door was his laboratory, perfectly serviceable for his needs.

But what set this room quite apart from everything else was, of course, his library. The second floor of the library had been built not long after he'd moved into 18 Downing Street, and after twenty years it had been stuffed to bursting. Mycroft has read every single book at one point or another, but that wasn't the point of it at all. Being with all of that knowledge made it easier to breathe, as if his mind could spill out onto all the pages and be safe, and cared for, and when it was time to leave he could simply run his fingers over the spines and gather it all back up.

It is a rare person he allowed in this room, a rare person he allowed to see the man he was without his mind bursting with knowledge. It is also, for the first time since its inception, an apology.

"Please," he says. "Sit."

John tries to sit like he's doing Mycroft a favor, and not like he feels close to collapse, though both of them clearly know which is the case. He's so _tired_ , always worn, like someone about to come down with a cold. His exhaustion is exhausting, and no small source of shame.

As are the outbursts. He knows Mycroft is only trying to help, and his therapist has told him innumerable times he needs to accept reality, 'acknowledge the truth and the ever-present 'D' word'. It still sounds unduly cruel to hear the words spoken to his son, his little boy, who only knows his father through photographs. Still, John almost spends more time apologizing for his reactions than having them, and therefore tries to let it go and be reasonable. "I'm a little old for a post-date interrogation."

"I'm merely concerned," Mycroft says, placid. "You'll forgive me for saying we're both aware I have reason to be."

John finds himself breathing very carefully. "You know these things take time, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks unimpressed. "Yes, but that time is usually spent getting _better_ , not worse."

John can't help but smile bitterly at that; a Holmes never pulls their punches. "I'm doing my best."

"I never said you weren't," Mycroft answers. He stares at John impassively, so different from Sherlock, so much less involved. Mycroft the observer, watching from on high to dictate to the tiny, mindless masses, and if it's an unkind assessment so be it. "But there is a better way to go about it."

"A more efficient way, you mean. Something neater, cleaner." There's a sudden vibrating in his pocket that startles him, and he pulls out his phone to find - for fuck's sake - that Alan is calling him. He puts the phone back in his pocket. "I'm sorry my grief hasn’t been orderly enough for you."

“Nothing about death is orderly,” Mycroft replies in kind, sitting in the overstuffed chair across from John’s. “By its very nature it is messy, chaotic. It has no rules, no boundaries.” He steeples his fingers thoughtfully, considering his words for a moment. “Did Sherlock ever tell you about the night my father died?”

At this John looks up. “No. I never pressed him about it... I thought he’d eventually tell me in his own time.”

Mycroft inclines his head, though he wants to tell John that no force on this earth, not even love, would have gotten Sherlock to ever speak of his father’s death again. 

He considers his next words carefully, considers the impact they might have had on Sherlock. And then he remembers that Sherlock has been dead and buried for two years, and decides that it would be worth it. “My mother was -- well, we both know what my mother is like. If anything, when we were children she was even more-so. My mother has done and seen more than any of us could ever imagine, and saved this country more times than we’d ever wish to think about. She is simply brilliant, and I say this not as her son, but as a man who has, through necessity, come to read about her exploits.” He pauses. “She is a wonderful woman, but she is also a hard woman, and far from maternal.”

He leans back in his seat. “Sherlock wasn’t always so analytical, or so cold. As a child he bore a much stronger resemblance to Andrew, both senior and junior. Cheerful, always laughing and running about the place. He loved music -- the child was simply born with a violin in his hand, a prodigy. He loved games and puzzles. Cyphers were his favorite.” 

He tapped his fingertips against his mouth. “My mother was in Bosnia. She was never supposed to tell us where she was going, but she often did anyway. There were no secrets in our house, she used to say. My father took time away from his work to spend it with us, during that week. He was a wonderful man, John, and of that I cannot say enough. He loved us more than life itself, and we were always made to know it, and feel it.”

This part is more difficult, and Mycroft looks at his books, the titles so perfectly alphabetical, so orderly.

“Father had sent Cook home, as well as his steward, Richard, until it was just the three of us. My father was making us pancakes. At the time we thought it a wonderful treat, but now I know it’s because pancakes were the only thing he knew how to cook. We were at the kitchen island, Sherlock sitting on it as my father flipped the pancakes beside him. I heard a sound, the window behind us shattered, and when I turned back to my father he had a bullet in his head and was falling backwards. He looked so surprised, as if he couldn’t fathom what had just happened.”

It’s as if he’s there again, barely thirteen years old. Sherlock, little Sherlock, eyes dilated and red splattered all over his face and shirt, and his father on the ground, missing half of his head.

John says, “What did you do?”

“The only thing I could do.” 

He stands, puts his hands in his pockets to calm them. “The ancestral home was built at a time when servants went unseen and unheard. There are dozens of servant passageways, hidden doorways, nooks and crannies leading all over the house; Sherlock and I played for hours and hours in those passageways, and the two of us knew them better than anyone.” He walks across to his favorite bookcase, the one that held his science books. Cold, hard, facts, unshakable truth. “Sherlock was seven years old. He was covered in blood, and he’d started to scream. So I put my hand over his mouth and pulled him into the servant’s passageway leading from the kitchen to the upstairs floor.”

“Mycroft,” John says softly. “You don’t--”

“I do,” Mycroft replies, touching a fingertip to Darwin. “The passages were like a maze. Even then I knew trapping ourselves upstairs was a mistake, so I cut across the second floor to the passage that led underground to the wine cellar and then up, to the gardener’s cottage. I didn’t dare go up into the cottage, not when I could hear the echo of gunfire. We stayed there all night.”

Hours, and hours, and hours of fear that had never seemed to end. Sherlock’s sobbing had eventually shifted into catatonia, and Mycroft can remember being grateful for it, staring into the pitch black dark and listening so hard it was as if he had become nothing but a pair of ears with which to hear. The gun fire had gone on for an hour at least, and at one point he’d even heard sounds in the servant’s passage, but eventually it too faded and there was nothing.

When he finally gathered enough courage to climb up through the garden cottage passageway, sixteen hours had passed and neither he nor Sherlock would ever be the same again.

Mycroft turns to look at John. “I knew that night that some very bad men had taken my father from me, but not that grief would also take my mother. She became a person I didn’t recognize, and our home, once so full of joy and laughter, became silent as a tomb. She tried, of that I’m sure, but she was never the same after my father’s murder. We couldn’t relate to her, other than academically, and Sherlock became withdrawn, aloof, obsessed with his puzzles and our father’s laboratory and eventually, cocaine. I don’t flatter myself in being particularly introspective, but I know enough to see that I am obsessed with the particulars, and utterly incapable of being anything but completely in control.”

He sits back down in the chair across from John. “I don’t want you to become my mother, John, to be so utterly consumed by grief that it alters you from the person you once were. Neither do I want you to make the same mistake that mummy did, inadvertently shaping our lives with her own relentless grief.” He makes a noise, frustrated with how difficult it is to say this, how much he was getting wrong instead of right. He tries again. “I don’t want you to feel as if we are pressuring you to ‘get over it’, because Sherlock was a man that can’t be forgotten, nor should he be. But John, I care for you and Andrew a great deal. I am sitting back and watching you become my mother, and I can say with firm resolve that my brother would not have wanted that for you.” 

John knows it isn’t what Sherlock would have wanted for them, but neither can he move forward, neither can he shut that part of his heart away. It’s like he’s running in place, going nowhere. For every storm, every hurricane, pieces of himself are torn away until he’s left as he is now, weak and fragile and crumbling. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” he says, finally. He doesn’t even sound like himself. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know,” Mycroft says, quietly. “That’s the thing with death like this, John. But you must find a way -- not for my sake, or Andrew’s sake, but your own.”


End file.
